


That's a Wrap

by StarlingGirl



Series: Hamilton Christmas Trash [2]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, Love Confessions, M/M, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-03
Updated: 2019-12-03
Packaged: 2021-02-26 07:33:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,263
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21659842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarlingGirl/pseuds/StarlingGirl
Summary: "I was trying to wrap gifts," Alexander says. "Do you know how much bullshit it is that stores charge for wrapping? I mean, it's bad enough that they hike prices at Christmas because they know people are going to be buying. But they can't even sling it in a nice bag and whack some tissue paper on top and call it done?"Alexander asks John to help him wrap his Christmas presents. John, struggling to find a way to express his feelings for Alexander—sometime before Christmas, at the insistence of Lafayette—agrees.Confessions are made, in a less-than-traditional manner.
Relationships: Alexander Hamilton/John Laurens
Series: Hamilton Christmas Trash [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1559524
Comments: 20
Kudos: 141





	That's a Wrap

**Author's Note:**

> Yet more Christmas fluff, and I will not apologise. Not even for the title.
> 
> [Find me on tumblr!](https://seekstrivefind.tumblr.com/) Come yell at me about Hamilton, I'm very friendly and rarely bite. I consider (but can't promise to write) prompts & requests.
> 
> I promise I have a semi-serious, multi-chapter Hamilton/Laurens fic on its way soon. For now, you're getting unrepentant trash.

John's wrestling with a string of Christmas lights when the frantic knocking at his door starts. He sighs, frowning down at the knots of wiring that seem, impossibly, even more tangled than when he started and pushes himself to his feet, jogging through his apartment and pulling open the door.

He finds a panicked-looking Alexander Hamilton, two large and lumpy-looking bags at his feet.

"Oh, hey," John says, and swings the door open wide to admit him. Alexander snatches up his bags and shoulders his way in without a word. John blinks, closes the door behind him, carries the conversation by himself. "Nice to see you, too, Hamilton. I'm good thanks, how are you?"

"Yeah, yeah," Alexander says, waving his hand impatiently to dismiss the societal niceties of conversation. John looks him up and down.

He looks downright frazzled. His hair is a mess and there's darker-than-usual shadows under his eyes. He's wearing mismatched layers, bundled up in every warm piece of clothing he could get his hands on at short notice. The bags at his feet tip over, slowly, sadly. John watches it happen.

"You okay, man?"

"I need your help," Alexander says. "I’ve seen your Christmas tree."

Alexander flings a finger out towards the elegant, six-foot tree that's nestled tastefully in the corner of the room, twinkling gently. The ornaments are rich reds and russets, bronzes and golds. It screams elegance, sophistication. Beneath it, piles of presents sit tantalisingly, all colour coordinated with the tree itself and sporting delicate bows, or simple twined string for a nostalgic, almost Victorian feel.

"Yes?" John asks, unsure where this conversation is going.

"I was trying to wrap gifts," Alexander says. "Do you know how much bullshit it is that stores charge for wrapping? I mean, it's bad enough that they hike prices at Christmas because they know people are going to be buying. But they can't even sling it in a nice bag and whack some tissue paper on top and call it done?"

John coughs to cover his laugh. 

"So you're here because—?" he prompts.

"Because I want you to wrap my gifts for me. You've clearly got the talent for it, or whatever. I wrapped one for Eliza and it looked like it had been run over by a truck. Several trucks. And then thrown in a dumpster."

"Ah," John says, awkwardly. "Um, sure. Okay."

Alexander breaks out into a grin.

"I knew you'd take pity on me. I brought wine." John relaxes, at that. An evening spent wrapping presents isn't necessarily what he'd had in mind tonight, but an evening with a bottle of wine and Alexander's company? Well, he won't pass up on that. He could even lose the wine, if pressed, and get by with Alexander to himself for a few hours, because he’s pathetic and pining and waiting for the perfect opportunity.

Lafayette is onto him, this year. Long-standing crush on his best friend aside, John has no desire for anything to come to fruition just because there was a Frenchman hovering outside the break room with a sprig of mistletoe, ready to pounce. It's just too embarrassing. 

And really, it probably _is_ about time that he threw caution to the wind, as he is wont to do. He ran out of excuses about three weeks ago, and has been clinging to ‘potential awkwardness following rejection’ ever since, but even that last resort is wearing thin. He’d confided in Lafayette in the hope that speaking his intentions out loud might actually spur him into action. Instead, it had spurred _Lafayette_ into action, and he’s been dealing with innuendo and waggling eyebrows and suggestive comments ever since. 

It’s frankly a miracle that Alexander hasn’t noticed. 

And he’s only managed to get Lafayette to stop by promising that he’ll say something to Alexander. _Before_ Christmas. With that deadline imminently looming, he’s starting to feel a little helpless, rushed. 

“Alright,” John says, and hoists one of the bags up onto the dining table. “You grab some glasses.”

Alexander strips off his outer layers and wanders off, more than familiar with the layout of John’s apartment. He reappears moments later with two deep wine glasses. John peers into one of Alexander’s bags and finds it half filled with wrapping paper, tape, scissors, ribbons, and labels. The other half is taken up with various gifts, all still in their bags or packaging. He pulls one out at random—a writing set, beautifully expensive paper and envelopes lined with a bright peacock-feather print, with a sticky note that says 'ELIZA' in Alexander's blocky scrawl.

“Damn,” John says, lifting it. “This is nice. She’ll love it.”

“She’s gotten super into writing letters lately,” Alexander says. “Figured it was an improvement on last year.”

“Didn’t you get her a book that she already owned?”

“Yeah,” Alexander says glumly. “Worst part is that I was the one who’d given it to her in the first place.”

John snorts. Beneath its plastic packaging, the writing set has its own, deep blue box, open so that the contents can be displayed. John carefully unpicks the stickers at the sides, peels off the plastic, and closes the box so that it will be easier to wrap. He checks that there’s no price attached, and rolls out some paper.

“Alright,” he says, with confidence, and then pauses while Alexander uncorks the wine and pours them both generous glasses. John slips his phone out and fiddles around until the soothing tones of Bing Crosby begin to croon through the room. He almost wishes that he had a fireplace, that the scene could be perfected by the gentle crackle and pop of burning logs. Still, he's content enough with Alexander's presence—and Lafayette's absence. _Maybe tonight_ , he thinks. _Maybe later_. 

He scoops up his glass, clinks it against Alexander’s, and takes a mouthful. “Not bad.”

“You got mad last time I brought reasonably priced wine,” Alexander grumbles into his glass. John brandishes the scissors in his direction.

“There’s a difference between ‘reasonably priced’ wine and ‘six-dollar’ wine. Even you admitted it tasted sorta like cough medicine.”

“I didn’t say it was necessarily a _bad_ thing,” Alexander says, but he’s smiling into his glass. John rolls his eyes, and focuses back down at the wrapping paper laid out in front of him. He takes a second to judge, and then confidently scores the paper off. 

“Make yourself useful and cut some tape,” he says. Then, very carefully, he begins to fold the paper around the little box, resisting the urge to stick his tongue out in concentration. Alexander dutifully puts down his wine glass, curses softly to himself when he can’t find the end of the tape, and then gets it stuck around his fingers while he tries to reach for the scissors.

“No—wait, hang on. Fuck, okay, that was just a practice piece. Doesn’t count.” John, holding paper in place with one hand and the other impatiently outstretched, waiting for the tape, rolls his eyes.

“You had _one_ job, Hamilton.”

“Fuck you, Laurens.”

“Want to wrap these on your own?”

“Okay, okay. Forgive me. Here’s your damn tape.” John takes the strip of tape carefully, grunts in irritation when his other hand slips where it’s holding the paper down. One-handed, he does his best to wrestle it into place. Another fold, another piece of tape. And another. And maybe one more, because that corner looks a little off, and—

“—Laurens,” Alexander says, flatly. “What the fuck is that?”

John looks up at Alexander, wide-eyed and a little guilty, and then back down at the gift he’s wrapped. It looks almost, but not quite, like it’s been run over by a truck. And then several other trucks. And then thrown in a dumpster.

There’s a long pause, until John sags, defeated.

“Yeah, okay,” he admits. “I pay someone to wrap my presents for me.”

A moment passes in silence, and then Alexander _springs_ up from his chair, the hand that flies up to point accusingly at John only narrowly missing his wine glass. “You fucking cheater! How did I not know this? You’ve been giving me perfectly wrapped presents for _years_ ! I feel so _betrayed_ —”

John raises his hands, half-laughing, to ward off Alexander’s diatribe; he’s not ready for Alexander to let the words drop and _launch_ himself at John instead. Ordinarily, even a running tackle from Alexander would fail to unbalance John, but he’s rocking back on his heels with laughter, and he’s in his socks on the smooth floor, and he’s completely and utterly unprepared. They both go over, Alexander’s weight knocking the breath from John.

“They decorate the tree too,” he wheezes, just to hear the cry of outrage from above him. Alexander scrambles over him, sitting across his middle and pinning him effectively to the floor. John could probably tip him off easily enough if he wanted to. He absolutely does not want to. His fingers itch to slide onto Alexander's knees, up his thighs. 

“John Laurens, you are a traitor to the festive season and to your friends,” Alexander says, emphatically, and John hasn’t had nearly enough wine to justify the heady rush at the way that Alexander’s lips frame his name.

“Hey. Can’t blame me for adapting,” John says. “Not my fault you’re too miserly to pay somebody for their services— _oof!_ ” Alexander plants his hands in John’s middle to push himself upright, driving his weight down as he does so. John wheezes again, groaning and struggling to sit, to chase after the warmth of Alexander against him.

But Alexander is already off, skittering across the polished floor towards the Christmas tree with a look of determination on his face. When he reaches it, he snatches up a present and wrestles the ribbon off, tearing at the paper.

“Hey! Ham, what the fuck?”

John scrambles to his feet, almost falling again as his socks slide against the floor. Catching himself just in time, he hurries over towards Alexander, who's abandoned the unwrapped gift under the tree, and moved onto another. 

“If I have to give people terribly wrapped gifts, you do too,” Alexander says, stripping the paper from a set of hand-painted bookends intended for Lafayette. John grabs at them, snatching them away from Alexander’s grip and placing them carefully on the table. Alexander dives for another present, and John’s breath catches high in his throat.

“No—not that one, _not that one_ —!”

He makes a dive for it but he’s too late; Alexander whips it out of John’s reach and digs his fingers into the paper, tearing a wide strip through it and then freezing when he catches sight of what’s inside it. John stands stock-still, his breath held high in his chest.

There are several gifts under the tree intended for Alexander, and he could have grabbed _any_ of them. The Netflix subscription John got him so that Alexander would stop messing up _his_ recommendations. The hard-bound, beautifully illustrated set of military biographies. The now-traditional stack of notebooks.

Instead, he grabbed this one. The if-things-go-well gift. The just-in-case gift. The I’m-pathetically-in-love-with-you gift. John shifts awkwardly from foot to foot as Alexander resumes unwrapping it, this time with precise and almost reverential movements.

It had been an impulse purchase. He'd been scrolling back idly through pictures from college—amazed that they had ever looked so young—and lingered over one of him and Alexander on the first Thanksgiving they'd ever spent together. John had announced he was staying to keep Alexander company and risked the wrath of his father to do it, spurring Lafayette and Hercules to do the same. In the picture, John's got an arm slung over Alexander's shoulders. Alexander's head is tipped back, caught mid-laugh. They look happy and a little drunk and it had sparked something warm and fond in John's chest, seeing it again. 

And there, in the sidebar, had flashed an innocuous little advert. 

_Display a special moment in time with your own personalised star map! A unique gift for the loved one in your life._

He'd sort of forgotten about it until it had arrived, and then he'd opened the package and winced at his own sappiness, and put it away, and forgotten about it again. 

Until, lost and longing, all caught up in the feelings taking up residence in his chest, he'd retrieved it, and dug out his paints, and poured himself into recreating the photograph. He sketched their faces across the stars, let the little white points shine through the rich colours so that his own freckles were stars, and the glint in Alexander's eyes were stars, and above their heads the stars spilled across the rest of the frame, topped by the neat caption. _Thanksgiving 2008, NYC._

Those three words are the closest thing to a love letter that John has ever written. He's embarrassed of them now, as Alexander stares down at the frame, at their faces. His fingers gently smooth over the words at the top. 

"John, it's—" 

His sentence falls away before it's finished. 

John swallows, hears the dry click of his throat. Alexander wasn't supposed to see this until John had _said_ something, _done_ something. But here he stands, clutching it in gentle hands, brow slightly furrowed and lips slightly parted. Staring. 

"I was going to tell you," John says, hopelessly and helplessly defeated. There's no hiding the meaning of it, the feelings that he's arranged into broad strokes of pigment, spilled out into his makeshift canvas to be read by anyone who cares to see. Alexander finally looks up—turns away. John's breath hitches, his eyes fall closed. Searching for the right words he finds nothing; he is not Alexander, to whom words come easily as breathing. 

He hears the faint _thak_ of the painting being set down. A second, and then a feather-light brush of fingers against his cheek startles his eyes into fluttering back open. 

Alexander is standing in front of him, close enough that there's only a breath between them. One of his hands, outstretched, slides gently and hesitantly against John's cheek, as though afraid he might withdraw from the touch. John lifts a hand to cover it with his own, hold it there. 

"John," Alexander murmurs. John's not sure whether Alexander's moved closer or he has, or whether they're both drawn together with some long-suppressed magnetism, now unavoidable. Their lips are almost brushing now. "You're still a fucking cheat."

A moment of surprised silence. John opens his mouth to protest and Alexander surges upwards, slipping a hand behind John's neck and yanking him towards him. Teeth scrape against John's lower lip and then their tongues are sliding together, intoxicating. John's entire body feels too light and too heavy, something knotting and tangling in his ribs like the string of lights still abandoned on the floor. He drops an arm around Alexander's waist, pulls him closer. They kiss with a single-minded determination, chasing the taste of each other and hands desperate to touch, to hold, to keep—

"—you can't win an argument like this," John says breathlessly, pulling back and planting his hand across Alexander's face when he tries to follow after, to steal another kiss. 

"I can try," Alexander whines, grabbing at the front of John's sweater, and proving his immaturity by sticking his tongue out to lick a stripe across John's thumb. 

John, who's just had the same tongue _in his mouth_ , is unperturbed. 

"If I let you go, are you going to continue destroying somebody's hard work?" John demands, laughter nestled in his throat. His whole world has just changed, and nothing has changed at all. Happiness is tearing him apart from the inside out. Held close against his chest, Alexander glances down at the pile of presents under the tree, and then back to John's lips. 

"No?" 

"Hmm." John removes hand from Alexander's face, drops it instead to his hip where his thumb sweeps back and forth to find the promise of bare skin beneath t-shirt. Alexander immediately presses his lips to John's once more, rocking up onto his toes to scatter soft kisses along the curve of his lips, the line of his jaw. 

"It's beautiful," Alexander mutters near his ear. "You're beautiful." John's heart trips over itself, clumsy and all too eager. "Why didn't you say?" 

"I didn't know how," John says, because it sounds better than _I was scared._

"I only got you a box set and some of those stupidly fluffy socks you like," Alexander says morosely. " _And_ I was gonna make you wrap them." John snorts. 

"I know a guy who can do it better for a very reasonable price," he says dryly. "I'll make a call." Alexander huffs a breath and rolls his eyes. He slips from John's grip, ignoring his soft noise of disappointment, and retrieves the painting, leaning it up against the wall on the side table near the tree and taking a step back to examine it. John slides up behind him, pulling Alexander back against his chest and ducking to rest his chin on his shoulder. 

"That was the first time I really felt at home in New York," Alexander admits. John kisses his neck, tucking his face against the warmth of it. They stay there for a while, comfortably silent. John thinks back to Thanksgiving in 2008, to the way he'd felt, and wonders if he had already been falling in love even back then, without even realising. 

After a while they relocate, John snagging the wine bottle to bring with them. Stretched out along the couch with Alexander bracketed between his thighs, back leaning against John's chest, John feels safe and comfortable and _right._

"Are we dating now?" Alexander asks, as subtle and tactful as ever. John tangles their fingers together. 

"I hope so," John confirms, idly. "Or it will make it kind of weird when I take you on a breakfast date tomorrow."

"You want me to stay over before we've even had our first date? Shocking. And here I thought you were a gentleman."

John drags his fingers up and under Alexander's t-shirt, bites lightly on Alexander's earlobe and smirks at the faint, almost-whimper he gets in return. 

"You can leave if you want," he says, innocently. 

"I'm good," Alexander says, too-quick and breathy and his own fingers grasping slackly at John's thigh. 

"Breakfast it is, then."

And truth be told, it's not even that John intends to have sex with Alexander tonight—not that he'll say no, either, if that's where they end up; not after so many nights spent desperately trying not to imagine what Alexander would feel like beneath him—it's just that he doesn't want to let go. Doesn't want to be apart from him, from this newfound permission to touch and to hold him close, to kiss whenever he wants. 

And so they drink wine and put on White Christmas, half-paying attention but wrapped up mostly in each other. 

Later, when the night is stretching itself thin and Alexander is drowsy and a little drunk, John snaps a picture. Their hands, tangled together, and their legs tangled together too, and in the background the soft-focus golden lights of the tree reflecting off the painting. He sends it to Lafayette with a smiley face emoji, and gets a row of exclamation marks in return, stretching out across his screen. He laughs softly. 

"Mmf?" Alex says. 

"Nothing," John assures him, and shifts a little lower on the couch, pulling Alexander flush against him, marvelling at how right it feels, how normal. "I'm just really happy you're here."


End file.
